


On the Nature of Friends

by Ferith12



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:33:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24609223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ferith12/pseuds/Ferith12
Summary: After the second world war, Prussia writes letters that he does not send.
Relationships: France & Prussia (Hetalia)
Kudos: 15





	On the Nature of Friends

Prussia writes letters to France which he does not send.

They crossed a line somewhere, and he’s not sure how and he’s not sure when, but he crossed it, and it’s behind him now, and he’s not sure he could ever go back.

Of course he can’t. He was dissolved, and France signed the paper, and now he belongs to Russia, in everything but name.

Well.

Prussia writes letters that he knows he cannot send.

They are not letters of apology. They are only letters to a friend. Joking, casual. Words he’s not sure that France would let him speak if he was there. 

He writes letters to Spain, too, but there is less weight to that. Spain forgives lightly.

A line was crossed. Prussia did not notice its crossing as it happened. He’s not sure when it was crossed, whether it was in the second World War or the first, whether it was he or Germany who crossed it. In the end it doesn’t matter.

He hopes that Germany will send the letters when he is dead.

(He does not write to Germany, it would hurt too much for both of them.)

France hated him, the last he saw him. Prussia understands. But then again he doesn’t.

They were friends. Now they’re not, probably. Prussia hadn’t known that was possible, no matter what they did to each other. Not that what he did, what Germany did, wasn’t unforgivable, not that he expected to be forgiven. He just. To him it was irrelevant. He didn’t feel betrayed when France signed his death warrant. He didn’t feel betrayed exactly when France didn’t say goodbye to him first, either. Just sad and frustrated and angry, not at France, at himself and the world and everything that brought them to this place. He wouldn’t say he’s surprised. He just. Wishes. It’s a silly thing. A childish thing.

Friendships die like everything else.

He and France have always been enemies, but a line was crossed. He thinks if he was someone else, anyone else, he would have noticed.

Prussia has never been happy.

No, that’s not accurate. Prussia has often been happy. He can still be happy sometimes, even now. He has a knack for it.

Let’s go back.

Prussia’s first memory is of death. The smell of gangrene was thick in his nose. The first thing his new eyes saw was the pilgrim’s rotting leg. Prussia’s first breaths were breathed in the same sickness heavy air as this stranger’s last.

He was The Order of Brothers of the German House of Saint Mary in Jerusalem, and he helped where he could. He learned to fight and he loved it, but he was a doctor before he was a soldier, and he never quite believed in chivalry.

Prussia loved books and God and killing. He committed his first genocide when he was shorter than a grown man’s sword. He thought he was good or evil or just doing his job. He hoped God would forgive him in the end and he made no apologies. He is no America, he never thought he was a hero, not really. Just a sinner trying what he prayed was his best.

Prussia has never understood the concept of honorable combat. He adopted it when it was fashionable, yes, he knew what he could get away with. But to him battle has always been a matter purely of practicality. War is not honorable or heroic or glamorous. War is dirty and ugly and cruel and Prussia loves it.

Life has never been kind, and neither has Prussia, he does not expect others to be either, and that is perhaps the kindest thing about him.

No one, Prussia believes, is trustworthy. That is natural, and he does not begrudge anyone for it, not really. But Prussia cannot trust, so he is more comfortable being friends with his enemies than his allies. A friend cannot stab you in the back if he is already trying to stab you through the chest.

Prussia does not understand emotions, personalities, people, but he understands war. You can learn so much about a person by fighting them, strategy and counter strategy, attack, retreat, espionage. This is how Prussia courts his friends. 

When you invade, when you take someone else’s land it becomes a part of yourself. Along messy, war-torn borders, the people of Prussia’s enemies become his own and he feels them as they felt them, and he comes to know them better than he ever possibly could anyone he’s never fought. Prussia only knows how to understand empathy through violation. 

So, Prussia is not France’s friend despite their centuries of vicious, bloody rivalry, but because of it. But he understands that this perspective is not normal.

France was not a friend to Prussia because of their enmity but despite it. France is not a person who judges harshly. He is happy to keep the political separate from the personal. He believes in living and laughing and loving, and does not take injuries to heart unless he wishes to, at least up to a point.

But, a line was crossed somewhere.

So Prussia writes letters to France that he does not send and pretends, as though, after everything they are still friends.


End file.
